gain his voice had changed. It was the voice
of a very old man, tired out, indifferent, poignantly feeble.

"My boys," said he, indicating the two young men, "zey are dead; no
one of ze old Bourgueil-Crotanoy is left except me--and I, as you see,
am half dead. Perhaps I was too proud; my confessor tell me so,
always. I was--I am still--proud of my race, of my chateau. I was not
permitted to serve Republican France, but I gave her my boys. They
went to Tonquin; I remained at home, thinking of ze day when zey would
return, and marry, and give me handsome grandchildren. Zey did--not--
return. Zey died. One in battle, one of fever in ze hospital. What was
left for me, _mes amis_? Could I live on in ze place where I had
seen my children and my children's children? No. Could I meet in Paris
ze pitying eyes of friends?"

* * * * *

Years afterwards, Ajax and I found ourselves in Morbihan. We paid a
pilgrimage to the Chateau de Bourgueil-Crotanoy, and entered the
chapel where the last of the Bourgueil-Crotanoy is buried. A mural
tablet records the names, and the manner of death, of the two sons.
Also a line in Latin:

"'Tis better to die young than to live on to behold the misfortunes
and emptiness of an ancient house."

XIV

JIM'S PUP

Jim Misterton was a quiet, reserved fellow, who had come straight to
Paradise from a desk in some dingy London counting-house. He told us
that something was wrong with his lungs, and that the simple life had
been prescribed. He was very green, very sanguine, and engaged to be
married--a secret confided to us later, when acquaintance had ripened
into friendship. Every Sunday Jim would ride down to our ranch, sup
with us, and smoke three pipes upon the verandah, describing at great
length the process of transmuting the wilderness into a garden. He
built a small board-and-batten house, planted a vineyard and orchard,
bought a couple of cows and an incubator. Reserved about matters
personal to himself, he never grew tired of describing his
possessions, nor of speculating in regard to their possibilities. If
ever a man counted his chickens before the eggs had been placed in the
incubator, Jim Misterton was he.

Ajax and I listened in silence to these outpourings. Ajax contended--
perhaps rightly--that Misterton's optimism was part of the "cure." He
bade me remark the young fellow's sparkling eyes and ruddy cheeks.

"He calls that forsaken claim of his Eden,